The Ragged Edge eBook

“I hadn’t thought of that. It wouldn’t
do to say that she was from the hospital. She’s
too pretty and unusual. Besides, I’m afraid
her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn.
When anybody is natural, these days, we dub them queer.
The contact is disturbing; and we prefer going around
the fact to facing it. Aren’t we funny?
And just as I was beginning to lose faith in human
beings, to have someone like this come along!
It is almost as if she were acting a role, and she
isn’t. I’ll talk to her in the morning,
but she won’t understand what I’m driving
at. Born on a South Sea island, she said.”

“Ah! Now I can get a perspective.
This is her first adventure. She isn’t
used to cities.”

“But how in the Lord’s name was she brought
up? There’s a queer story back of this
somewhere.”

The manager extended his hands at large, as if to
deny any responsibility in the affair. “Never
heard of a sing-song girl; never heard of a geisha!
Flower of the Lotus: the sing-song girl called
her that.”

“The White Hollyhock would fit her better.
There is something sensual in the thought of lotus
flowers. Hollyhocks make one think of a bright
June Sunday and the way to church!”

“Do you suppose that young fool has done anything?”

The doctor shrugged. “I don’t know.
I shouldn’t care to express an opinion.
I ought to stay the night through; but I’m late
now for an operation at the hospital. Good night.”

He departed, musing. How plainly he could see
the patch of garden in the summer sunshine and the
white hollyhocks nodding above the picket fence!

* * * *
*

Ruth sat waiting for the half hour, subconsciously.
Her thoughts were busy with the possibilities of this
break in her journey. Somebody to depend upon
her; somebody to have need of her, if only for a little
while. In all her life no living thing had had
to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat.
All other things were without weight or consequence
before the fact that this poor young man would have
to depend upon her for his life. The amazing tonic
of the thought!

From time to time she laid her hand upon Spurlock’s
forehead: it was still cold. But the rise
of the chest was quite perceptible now.

From where had he come, and why? An author!
To her he would be no less interesting because he
was unsuccessful. Stories ... love stories:
and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them!
It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be
true. It filled her with indefinable fear.
Until now none of her prayers had ever been answered.
Why should God give particular attention to such a
prayer, when He had ignored all others? Certainly
there was a trap somewhere.

So, while she watched, distressed and bewildered by
her tumbling thoughts, the packet, Canton bound, ruffled
the placid waters of the Pearl River. In one
of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow
bunk. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph,
frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of
many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen.